Liver Let Die (19 page)

Not to mention there was a plate of spaghetti and meatballs with her name on it waiting in some cheap dive across town.

To her surprise, Trevelli’s face softened. After he struggled to an upright position, he put his hand on her shoulder. “That’s understandable. If you want, you and I can continue this conversation over a cup of coffee or a drink. Right now I have to get back on the field unless I want a repeat of the debacle last Saturday.”

“The bookmakers are calling you the underdogs this week for the first time in two years,” Victor said, standing up before reaching for Jordan’s hand to help her.

Trevelli smiled. “If you have any extra money lying around, you might want to bet it on the Cougars. No way we’re coming out losers this week.” He turned and headed toward the team. “I’ll call you about that drink, Jordan,” he said over his shoulder.

Jordan? When did she say he could call her by her first name? “That would be great, Coach.” The phony smile strained her muscles.

Back in the car, Victor turned to her. “So, are you going to have that drinkie-poo with him?”

She huffed. “Didn’t you notice that white circle around his tanned ring finger?”

“Oh, yeah. Not much I miss with these eagle eyes. I just wondered if you had.”

“The first time we talked.”

“I’ll get the skinny on him from Michael. He went to college here and knows everything about everybody.” Victor drove several blocks before turning into the parking lot at the Italian restaurant. “Come on, honey. All those tight ends made me ravenous.”

Jordan made it through the rest of the week without another summons to Egan’s office. Figuring Larry Trevelli must have bought her pseudo-apology, she applauded her own self restraint. She’d wanted to take him to task when he’d tried to make Brittney out to be the bad guy, but that wasn’t the time or the place to set him straight.

At the thought of the young girl, she remembered intending to have another talk with her to convince her to go to her parents about what Derrick had done to her.

Lounging in her pajamas and sipping coffee, she took her time reading the
Ranchero Globe
. That only made her anxiety level rise, thinking about Tuesday’s deadline for a new recipe. She’d have to waste the weekend surfing the Internet or, worst case scenario, come up with Plan B.

She’d meant to use whatever Rosie served last night at potluck, but her friend had spent the day at the racetrack with Quincy Dozerly and didn’t have time to cook. Dinner had been an extra-cheese pizza from Guido’s and a tray of peach cobbler from Myrtle’s Diner.

Much to Jordan’s dismay, the lawyer was fast becoming a regular at their Friday night get-togethers. Although she was now less annoyed when he was around, she still wished it was just the old gang getting together like it used to be. But even she couldn’t deny that Rosie was bubblier than ever when she was with Quincy, both acting like teenagers laughing at each other’s jokes. As Rosie’s friend, Jordan would tolerate the guy and hope she didn’t need to count on him to keep her out of Grayson County Jail.

She walked to the kitchen and poured her second cup of coffee from the four-cup machine she’d invested in her first day as a Ranchero resident. Her dad may not have taught her how to make eggs Benedict, but he’d passed on his talent for brewing the best cup of joe in all of Texas.

Curling up on the couch, Jordan knew she couldn’t put off calling Brittney any longer and picked up the phone book. As luck would have it, Eric Prescott was listed. Since she remembered that was Brittney’s brother’s name, she took a chance. After dialing the number, she waited, and when an older voice answered, she asked for Brittney.

“She’s at school setting up for tonight’s dance,” the woman said.

“Are you her mother?”

“Yes, why?”

Jordan debated only a minute before making her decision. “Mrs. Prescott, I’m Jordan McAllister from the
Globe
. I spoke with Brittney last week about J. T. Spencer.” She paused, wondering how to say it. “Did you know Brittney is being abused?”

Jordan heard the sharp intake of breath on the other end. “What do you mean abused?”

“Talk to your daughter about Derrick Young. If she won’t open up to you, call me back. I’d like to give her the opportunity to tell you first.”

There was a long silence before the woman thanked her and hung up.

Hopefully, she’d opened up a dialogue between Brittney and her parents, who would know what to do next. After seeing Larry Trevelli’s injuries, she knew it couldn’t wait any longer despite the coach’s insistence he’d been mugged.

She settled back on the couch, not quite ready to get up and face the world. Saturday had always been her favorite day of the week. Still was. It was the only day she allowed herself to be lazy, sometimes staying in pj’s all day, catching up on reading, television, or just taking cat naps.

When the doorbell rang, she jumped, annoyed with whoever had the nerve to disturb her at ten in the morning on
her
day. The front door of Empire Apartments was clearly posted with NO SOLICITATION, but every now and then a zealous salesperson or religious advocate braved the wrath of the residents and ignored the sign.

“What are you doing here?” she asked when she opened the door.

“That’s a warm welcome, for sure.” Alex responded, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Nice jammies,” he said over his shoulder as he walked past her into the kitchen carrying a glass dish.

Jordan’s hands automatically crossed over her chest, this time out of actual apprehension rather than modesty. “Why are you here?” she repeated.

“Let’s face it, Jordan. You are no Emeril in the kitchen. I thought it was about time I showed you how living in a houseful of women paid off.”

Her eyes drifted to the dish he’d placed on the counter as he lifted the lid. Whatever it was, it smelled delicious. “I can cook,” she said, defensively.

He laughed out loud. “I don’t think Pop-Tarts count as cooking.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. “I’m sure in some cultures, they do,” she said, defiantly, moving closer to the counter. “What’d you bring?”

“My mother’s favorite recipe—Tex-Mex Breakfast Casserole. She fixed it every holiday when we were all together. I called last night for the recipe and whipped it up this morning. Impressed?”

Despite herself, she smiled. “How can I be impressed when I haven’t even tasted it yet?”

His eyes trailed down her body, making her suddenly wish for a blanket. She had on a pair of baby-doll pajamas Brett had given her for Christmas last year and was sure the color of her cheeks now matched the hot pink of the sheer fabric. With her whirlwind week, she hadn’t done the laundry yet, and the pajamas had been a last resort.

“Like what you see?” she asked boldly, determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing she was embarrassed.

“Oh yeah!” he said, his eyes rising to her face.

Crap!

She didn’t have to look to know her face had changed from pink to red in record time, and she sprinted to the bedroom. Hurriedly, she threw on a pair of jeans and a lightweight sweater. When she returned to the kitchen, he handed her a plate before rooting around in a drawer and coming up with a fork to go with it.

“Sit down and eat while it’s still hot. Mom always said there was nothing worse than cold eggs.” He opened the cabinet above the sink. “Got any glasses?”

“Of course I do,” she fired back with as much indignation as she could. In truth, the only ones she had were the plastic cups from Pizza Palace. “Let me put on a fresh pot of coffee,” she offered.

“Already done. Sit down and eat, Jordan. I’ll bring your juice.”

She sighed, knowing he was about to discover the extent of her incompetence in the kitchen. “Sorry. No juice.”

Pulling a container from the bag he’d brought with him, he poured the orange juice into the Pizza Palace cups. He brought them to the table and set one in front of her before bending over and kissing her cheek. “Who doesn’t have juice in the fridge?”

“I usually run to Mickey D’s for a breakfast burrito.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” He sat down opposite her and attacked the food on his plate. “Remember about those cold eggs,” he cautioned in between bites.

Jordan picked up the fork and took a small taste under his watchful eyes. Then she scooped a larger bite and started cleaning her plate. Whatever this dish was, it was excellent, and she finished off her serving.

“You made this?”

“Just this morning. Looks like you approve,” he said, obviously pleased.

“I hate it,” she deadpanned, handing him the empty plate. “This time, don’t be so stingy.”

After he refilled her plate and set it in front of her again, she thought of a brilliant idea. “What’s in this dish, Alex?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

She felt her face fall. For a minute, she’d hoped his Tex-Mex dish might be the answer to her prayers.

“Just kidding. It’s got eggs, sausage, bread, a little milk, and lots of hot-pepper cheese. Why?”

She licked her lips after swallowing the last bite. “I think this would make a great recipe for my column this week.”

“Really?” His eyes lit up with excitement. “I thought you only printed fancy recipes.”

She tried not to look desperate. “I’ll have Victor come up with a Spanish name for it. For some reason people think it’s gourmet food if it has a foreign name.” She paused. “It would be a big hit.”

He wrinkled his eyes in thought. “Tejano Casserole Desayuno.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s my very own translation for Tex-Mex Breakfast Casserole.” He puffed his chest out. “I took Spanish in college,” he explained when she stared at him.

“Can you get this recipe to me by Monday morning?”

“I will if you tell me why the cops were here the other day.”

She gasped. The only way he could have known that was if he’d sent them. “You tell me.”

“How would I know? I only heard it on the police scanner in . . .” He paused, as if he had just said something he wished he could take back. “I got a scanner for my car when I moved here so I wouldn’t die of boredom. It’s a hoot hearing the calls for stranded cats and drunken rednecks. One time a girl called to report the clerk at the pharmacy wouldn’t sell her condoms. Seems her mother had paid the worker. Guess it was her idea of birth control for her daughter.” His smile faded. “So, what about the cops?”

Jordan wanted to believe he wasn’t the one who tipped off the cops, but she couldn’t. The only people besides Alex who’d known she had a knife missing from the set were her friends and Quincy Dozerly.

Her friends would never sell her out, and Dozerly was her lawyer, for Pete’s sake.

Suddenly, she remembered how quickly Quincy had appeared like a bloody savior the day the police showed up with the warrant. Since none of her neighbors even knew the cops had been there until after they’d gone, how did he get the word she might need legal help?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden knock at her door.

Geez! Doesn’t anybody know this is a Saturday?

She opened the door, prepared to give whoever it was a piece of her mind. Saturday morning interruptions were worse than telemarketers calling at dinnertime.

Instead, her mouth gaped open and she was speechless for one of the few times in her life.

“You look great, Jordan. You gonna invite me in or what?”

Still unable to find her voice, she motioned for him to come in. He walked past into the living room just as Alex sauntered out of the kitchen, a dish towel over his shoulder and soapsuds up both arms.

For a few seconds, the two men glared at each other, and a flash of guilt coursed through Jordan’s body as if she’d been caught cheating.

“Alex, this is Brett Wilson, my ex-fiancé.”

CHAPTER 15

“Is this the guy you’re seeing now?”

Jordan stiffened, mentally kicking herself for lying about that the other day on the phone.

“Yeah, I’m the guy.” Alex squeezed between them, extending his hand. “Alex Montgomery.” He gripped Brett’s hand hard enough to make him wince. “Funny, she never mentioned you.”

Brett turned beet red. Pulling his hand out of Alex’s death grip, he turned back to Jordan. “Can we talk somewhere”—he glanced over his shoulder before icing her with his gaze—“private?”

“There’s nothing to talk about, Brett. I’m afraid you drove all the way out here for nothing.”

She avoided looking directly into his eyes. Although time had eased most of the pain of his rejection, he still had that boy-next-door appeal, though his appearance had changed since she’d seen him last. His hair was longer, his blond locks touching his earlobes with a hint of a curl, and his face, too pretty to be a man’s, sported a five-o’clock shadow.

Dang!
The
Miami Vice
look was hot on him!

When she finally met his stare, his eyes were squinted like he couldn’t believe she was brushing him off.

And why did that surprise her? He’d always been able to flash that big-man-on-campus smile and soften her up, even when she was so mad at him she’d sworn hell would freeze over before she gave him another chance.